


Fine

by ShadowoftheLamp



Category: H.I.V.E. Series - Mark Walden
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:55:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowoftheLamp/pseuds/ShadowoftheLamp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being Trent's little puppet had some lasting effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

> This is post-Rogue, in case the summary didn't give it away. Just a group of tiny moments that all paint an ugly picture of how being treated like nothing but a toy can screw you up.

He could keep up a facade. It couldn’t be that hard, right? 

“Otto, are you okay?” Laura tilted her head to the side, and for a moment, Otto swore her hair sparked like a bonfire. He needed sleep. He couldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t sleep. His cereal tasted like cold mush and vomit. 

”Mhm. Studying. No big deal.” Obvious lie. He didn’t need to study. Never really had. But Laura conceded for the moment, throwing a concerned look at him before Shelby distracted her with talk of a schedule change for free gym. 

That is, until he passed out into his cereal and shook himself back awake, grinning like it was all a very funny joke while Wing tugged his fingers through Otto’s hair, dislodging bits of cereal gunk. He spent the first two periods in the bathroom, thinking of nothing.

__ 

“Otto, are you all right? We can stop.” Even when the colors bled, blurred the edges of his vision, Otto’s reflexes were good. Too good. Better than before. He wasn’t Wing’s equal, but he wasn’t clumsily stumbling around anymore. His sessions with Ghost had changed that. 

_”You’re becoming quite the little assassin, Mr Malpense.”_ He had the wooden practice staff pointed at Wing’s chest before blinking, dropping it with a soft ‘thump’ on the mat, and making an excuse about having to go to the bathroom before splashing cold water on his face. Bloody sleepless veins made his eyes red, and he resisted the urge to smash the mirror.

__ 

Night. This simulator was night and he was to hunt Wing, but when he pointed a gun at him he remembered the feel of Wing’s hair under his fingers when he’d had the chamber pressed against his friend’s skull for real. He managed to shove the barrel into the waistband of his pants before quietly, robotically marching out, ignoring the beeping on his combat suit. Francisco saw his watering eyes and clenched fists and let him go.

__ 

Otto woke drenched in a cold sweat. The top of his blanket was stuffed in his mouth, stifling a cry. He must have done it in his sleep. HIVEmind projected a video of a baby deer with tawny fur trying to walk on the wall opposite his bed, and for some reason watching the animal stumble and manage to work up to an unsteady stride turned the silent tears streaming down his cheeks into muffled hiccups of joy. Wing rolled over in his sleep in the bed five feet and a thousand miles away from Otto’s.

__

He’d taken to stuffing a scarf in his bag in case he needed to retreat to the core. He had a sense it wasn’t good he spent so much time with HIVEmind. He didn’t want to burden his friends, but he shouldn’t concern the AI, should he? Most teachers had heard something had gone wrong in the months he’d been gone, and few questioned his frequent ‘bathroom breaks’. He was getting used to the cold.

__

“Now, I’m sure many of you have wondered whether or not it’d be easier to simply brainwash your opponent instead of trying to climb to the top, and in certain cases, that actually works quite well. For example…” Otto buried his face in his arms, trying to drown out the voice with music he played in his head whenever reality hurt too much and he could stand being a little detached. He’d composed entire symphonies. 

”Mr Malpense!” It didn’t work. “Are you paying attention?” Otto dragged his head up, a lead weight. 

”Yeah.” He squeezed his fingers with the opposite hand, just to feel the pressure, the way the bone pressed against his fingertips. “I’m fine.”

Maybe if he said it enough, he’d believe it.


End file.
